Morning rain had long since faded into a pale silver mist that lingered softly against the streets of the city, and the café near the eastern side of campus carried the quiet warmth of old wood, bitter coffee, and low conversation while muted jazz drifted gently through the dim interior beneath hanging amber lights.
Elara sat near the tall window with one hand wrapped loosely around a ceramic cup that had long since cooled untouched between her fingers, her posture composed despite the exhaustion lingering faintly beneath her eyes while soft daylight traced against the sharp curve of her cheek in delicate fragments.
She looked calm.
But calm had become performance.
A habit.
A survival instinct dressed as elegance.
